


down that blossoming path

by labocat



Category: Original Work
Genre: 17th Century, Edo Period, Kabuki - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24517480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/pseuds/labocat
Summary: Running a failing theater was harder than he’d expected.
Relationships: Edo Period Kabuki Troupe Owner/Bakeneko Who Wants to Become an Actor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28
Collections: Original Characters & Original Works Flash Exchange May 2020





	down that blossoming path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Title refers to the _hanamichi_ , or flower path, a part of the kabuki stage that juts out into the audience, used for emphasis and entrances/exits.

Running a failing theater was harder than he’d expected.

Well, it wasn’t as if that had always been the plan; it had been hard enough at the time to leave Hakata, to leave everything behind with nothing more than a dream and fewer coins than words of praise to support him. It had all seemed worth it back then, to make it up to the capital and fulfill his destiny, to stand upon that stage and be a part of the atmosphere that had captured his heart and soul so thoroughly.

He certainly was a part of it now. Akio sighed and leaned back from his desk and the piles of papers, each one more urgent than the last, demanding payment for one thing or another - a fixed roof here, a secondhand costume there. None of it new, none of it anything he hadn’t dealt with before, but nothing quite like this.

The proclamation at the top of the pile was the worst, the threat that the government’s new regulation on theaters and diminished licenses wouldn’t pass the Higashi-za by for much longer. He’d skated by this long on his master’s reputation with the other theaters, on his own admission to that circle the day he’d taken his master’s name and the small bit of protection it gave him, hovering in that space between the major and minor theaters. He’d promised Matsuyama Yuuichi that the Higashi-za would be under his care and wanted nothing more than to keep his word. But he could read the wind as well as the others and knew that it was only a matter of time before more than the proclamation and rumors came down through the Tokaido, before what was happening in Edo happened here too. 

He couldn’t begrudge anyone their decision to leave, to flee to one of the already-licensed theaters, the small handful of favorites most likely to survive this. He tried to be only thankful that they would take his staff on, that the restriction would be on the theaters themselves, and not their size.

Some had lingered, of course. Much like it was for Akio, the Higashi-za was their home, or were proud enough not to take the cut in billing they’d face moving to a larger troupe. They’d be able to get by for a bit yet. But not long enough.

Akio took one more look at the pile of papers and stood instead. He’d get them through this for as long as he could - it’s what he’d promised his master, and what he’d promised himself that day as Hakata disappeared behind him. He’d stand upon those boards for as long as they would hold him.

He found himself leaving his room, a restless feeling overtaking him as he headed down the passageway toward the front. Voices rose from within the actor’s room and he walked faster, not wanting to be thought idle or open for concerns. Focused entirely on making sure the conversation he could barely hear within the room remained uninterrupted and unaware of his presence, he didn’t see one of the maidstaff until it was too late, nearly bowling her over. 

“Ah!” Suzue immediately backed away, bowing quickly. “My apologies, sir, but there’s someone here to…” She dropped her voice to almost a whisper before continuing, “here to present his credentials.”

Nonsense. Anyone with credentials -- and even those without -- knew that the Higashi-za was on its way out. It was the whole reason Akio always walked quickly past the largest of the actors’ rooms, lest he overhear again unified agreement on which theater they’d all throw their lots in with after all of this was over and the Higashi-za either shuttered or was absorbed by one of the licensed theaters. No one would throw in their lot with him now.

And yet — there was a young man standing next to the hanamichi when he followed Suzue out to the front. She fled almost immediately, and Akio couldn’t blame her - the man before him had an aura that was unmistakable, a presence that immediately drew the eye, and Akio wondered once more what he was doing _here_. 

He was staring up at the stage itself, tawny eyes tracking from the back curtain to various positions and as Akio watched, he got the sense of each move, a vague shape of the sort of blocking the young man was imagining. In his mind’s eye he was already unfolding the story, watching the actor in front of him shift from pose to pose. He took a look at the man in front of him, taking stock of his posture, his neat hair and clothes, simple but clean and not worn, and his features, sharp cheekbones but soft eyes and mouth, good angles that would hold up well to the makeup of most roles.

It hit him then, that even without the other man opening his mouth, without even introducing himself, Akio had already decided. Neither of them had even said anything; he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he realized just how much he’d already been taken in. His friends had laughed at him for it, for his easy reactions and inability to keep any emotion off of his face. Back when he still had the time and funds to go out to Gion or Miyagawa and his friends had been just friends and not vague competitors in an ever-tightening circle.

“Is this a bad time?” Akio realized he’d been staring for far too long. “I can come back, I suppose, but when I asked around for your production manager, I only received odd looks. So I figured I would come here and ask in person. To ask you yourself.”

He straightened, drawing Akio’s surprise that he hadn’t already been standing upright, his poise had been so controlled already. “I come before you as Fujikawa Yuranosuke, the third of my name, and I ask if you have a place for my humble self in your troupe.” 

The words washed over Akio, the rhythm of them so familiar; he hadn’t realized how much he’d yearned to hear them again until he heard himself automatically reply. “Your request has been heard. I am Matsuyama Sosuke, the owner of this theater - the first Fujikawa Yuranosuke is known to me, but I had not realized he had a protege, much less a third.”

Fujikawa bowed, then dug in his side pouch for a piece of folded paper. “My master left for Edo to try his luck there in their changing styles, but I prefer the Kamigata style and came back.”

It still didn’t answer Akio’s deepest question, the one he couldn’t quite get unstuck from his throat in fear that he would break this spell. “What roles are you trained in?” he asked instead, pretending to read over the letter intently, all his attention on the way Fujikawa shifted his weight to the balls of his feet the second he relaxed. _Shosagoto_ , Akio thought, his mind already scanning through the lineup he’d already adjusted so much for their next performance, the one which none of them knew whether or not the theater would make it to hold. His heart began to beat faster at the thought, already imagining Fujikawa dancing.

“My master specialized in comedic roles, but I specialize in onnagata and dance,” Fujikawa replied, looking toward the stage as Akio felt himself nodding at the confirmation that his instincts hadn’t entirely decayed along with his theater. “Would you…?” 

There was nothing Akio wanted more in that moment. “We have no props ready at the moment; we are in the off-season, you see.” 

Fujikawa nodded, but still moved toward the stage, a small smile slipping across his face, the softness of it as he stared clashing with the brashness of his tone. “A good actor should be able to create the role at any moment.” 

His confidence would have been laughed out of any of the other theaters, Akio knew. Walking in without his master, no one to witness his training or succession, no guild to back him, he would have been immediately turned away. But Akio knew his decision even before Fujikawa held his first pose — even if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have been so stupid as to turn them away, not at this point, but watching Fujikawa was enrapturing. Even in an empty hall, it felt like that first time back in Hakata so long ago, surrounded by the story and swept into a new world. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his soul filling with a mesmerizing lightness as he watched Fujikawa move with an almost unearthly grace.

It took until he’d showed Fujikawa to the main room and left him there, turning back towards his own room to realize the feeling unfurling in his chest was hope.

Something about Fujikawa’s presence affected the other actors as well. Previously, Akio wouldn’t have said they were any less than the other troupes, that they could proudly stand alongside those licensed by the government, but attendance talked, even louder than the drums in the yagura the Higashi-za had never been allowed to have. He supposed it was why he’d been drawn to it in the first place - at the time when he’d come to Kyoto, most of the troupes would have taken on an extra stage hand, especially a kuroko who was still small and nimble and willing to do extra tasks around the theater -- but there had been something about the Higashi-za, something about the theater Matsuyama Yuuichi had built that had drawn him in from the start. He’d been in love with the theater from the moment he saw it, seeing the history in the faded red, green, and black curtain instead of the years. He’d stepped through and never looked back, and it had been his policy upon taking on new staff, that he recognize that same passion in them, until the time came that he couldn’t have anything as noble as scruples any more, when empty pockets and empty seats spoke to the true price of them. But now rehearsals were lively again, suggestions flowed, and there were even murmurings of one of the writers at the Minami-za having a falling-out and was looking for someplace else to bring his work. For the first time in years, Akio let himself imagine a future where the Higashi-za made it, and not as a subset of another theater, the image shining as brightly as the look in Fujikawa’s eyes whenever their gazes met. For the first time in years, he dreamed.

Akio woke from his dreams in the middle of the night to smell of lamp oil. Working in a theater for so long, his livelihood so fragile in the face of flame, he’d developed something of a sixth sense for it - most of the troupe knew better than to bring their own lanterns in, well used to tripping and stumbling over other members sleeping in the main room if they came back late.

He was out of his bed and down the hall before he could think about it, barely pausing to grab a short quilted robe to cover himself. More than the smell now, he followed the flicker of shadows thrown by the lamplight, the small hours of the night making each shape stranger and stranger in his mind.

The stage was lit by a single lamp off to the side, barely illuminating Fujikawa upon it. They’d agreed before that the best actors could create a role with no props, no costume, no music, and Fujikawa had certainly done that then, but watching him now, Akio couldn’t help but compare. It was the difference between being able to see what the role would be with full staging and not missing the extra trappings at all. 

Even without a word or call, Fujikawa moved, his expressions shifting in a way that instantly brought the accompanying line to Akio’s mind. His fluidity was unmatched by anyone he’d seen before — and he’d seen them all, from fledgling actors like he’d been once to actors of whom it was said no one would ever do the role justice again. But now, without an audience, without anything but the lamplight and the shadowed moonlight to grace him, Fujikawa captured his attention just as surely.

Akio found himself leaning against the wall now that he knew his theater was in no danger, letting himself enjoy a performance in a way he hadn’t in years. This was no practice, no run-through, no performance upon which their livelihood depended; it was for the joy of standing on that stage and something long-buried in his chest started to ache.

He’d made his peace with not becoming an actor long ago - Matsuyama Yuuichi had let him stay despite everything, had given him a place beside that stage where he could support and let it flourish, even if he would never stand upon it. But now, watching Fujikawa, feeling his heart start to beat faster as each movement became quicker, sharper, he remembered why he’d left Hakata all those years ago.

Even without trappings, Akio could recognize the dance of Hanako in honor of Kiyohime’s bell and her deadly love of the priest, Anchin. He watched, almost able to hear the bell and the music as the dance and Fujikawa’s movements became more enigmatic and almost serpentine in their fluidity as Hanako enticed her onlookers, changing robes and props that Fujikawa did not possess but Akio could see clearly all the same. Even though he knew the outcome of the story, Akio could still feel himself holding his breath as Fujikawa danced the reveal, of Hanako becoming Kiyohime, her inhuman transformation and anguish for her lost love clear in each bend and twist, each sweep of his arm or leg, each expression behind his hands. He wanted to cry out support for Fujikawa and instead held back in fear of breaking the spell he found himself trapped in.

Too soon, Fujikawa held his last pose, bowing deeply to an audience only in his mind and turning to pick up the lamp he must have brought, looking towards the back and the wall Akio leant against. Still stunned, Akio couldn’t possibly react in time, and while he had retreated into the shadows slightly, he was still in plain view if anyone cared to look. Fujikawa jumped, a too-elegant reaction for how startled he looked, but as Akio was realizing, everything he did seemed elegant.

Including knocking his lamp to the ground.

In a fit of panic, Akio raced forward, whipping the jacket from his shoulders to throw over the flames before they could spread but before he could, Fujikawa was already there, smothering them with a sweep of his arm. 

The front of the theater hadn’t seemed well-lit before with only the small lamp, but with its light gone, the moon seemed all the more prominent, reflecting off of Fujikawa’s eyes as they glanced up at each other.

Reflecting off, rather than illuminating. Those tawny eyes Akio had found so emotive, the slanted pupil no longer disguised -- whether in the shock of the moment or the lateness of the hour or the subject matter of his role, Akio did not know.

Fujikawa must have seen the surprise on his face; he also drew back, his face shifting, finally settling into something like a smirk. 

“Oh? Have I been found out?”

He’d put out the flames with his arm and sleeve before they could spread, righting the lamp immediately after so that the oil wouldn’t spill and pool. However as a result, his hand was glistening with it, the broken lamp still leaking over his hand slightly.

Without breaking Akio’s gaze, he brought the hand up to his lips and licked along the gleaming skin, lapping up the oil there. Frozen in place, Akio could only remember a story the grandmother next door had told him, of a tale she swore was true. _If you see a cat lick lamp oil, little one, be nice to it._ The others at the shop had laughed, saying that everyone knew bakeneko were no good, that it was better to keep them from reaching that stage of transformation at all - the world had enough youkai as it was, there was little point in being _nice_. 

She’d ruffled his hair and left smiling back then and Akio, his mind already full of the stage and the roles he would play, had paid her little mind, but her words stuck with him now. 

They were both still kneeling, crouched on the ground, but Akio felt his disadvantage keenly as Fujikawa shifted to lean over him, pinning him in place almost as thoroughly as his performance had.

“...”

“No words for me now, manager? A shame, I was so looking forward to hearing you beg.” Fujikawa’s mouth had curled up at one corner, baring one sharp canine tooth, his eyes narrowing as he leaned further over Akio, all but forcing him to the ground.

But Akio had seen Fujikawa act, knew that he could play any role he wanted with ease. Akio had been around actors for most of his life — he knew bad acting like the back of his hand and so did not quail in the face of Fujikawa’s now.

“You’re stunning.”

It was the wrong thing to say, but Akio wasn’t aiming for the right thing at that moment, just anything true, just something to throw off Fujikawa’s guard. It didn’t quite have the intended effect — Fujikawa did reel back a bit, but not far enough for Akio to scramble out from underneath him. He gave a laugh that sounded too sharp; sharp and brittle like a cheap blade.

“You men are all alike, thinking words of flattery will save you. ‘Beautiful’ this, ‘graceful’ that, ‘perfect’ the next, I’m—”

“-- the best actor I’ve seen in a generation.”

There they were, the words Fujikawa wasn’t expecting. They shattered the mask Akio knew he was wearing, revealing the shock underneath. But instead of drawing further back, Fujikawa darted forward, his hand pinning Akio’s shoulder to the ground, folding him in half and sprawling above him.

“Why…” The words caught, somewhere between a whisper and a snarl.

“Why speak the truth?” Akio shrugged as best he could while prone. “I’ve seen an entire set of actors come into their names, watched talents wax and wane. None of them stopped me short the way you do.”

Fujikawa seemed smaller at that, hunching into himself slightly, and Akio had the strange desire to run his hand down the back of Fujikawa’s neck, to smooth between those tight shoulder blades and ease that tension the way he would a startled cat.

“Why the Higashi-za?” He wanted to ask _’why me’_ , but that seemed too personal, too selfish to hope that he was within anyone’s eye, much less such dominating skill and beauty. He’d seen the sort of patrons men like Fujikawa got, actors or not. He knew his worth and knew he came up lacking. He was plain, more suited to the shadows than the spotlight, even if he’d realized it too late.

The question seemed to relax Fujikawa somewhat, though; his grip on Akio’s shoulder lessened at least, even as he continued to look askance and mumbled something.

“I know you have no trouble making yourself heard; speak clearly.”

“You, alright?” A flush rose on Fujikawa’s cheeks even as he looked affronted that he’d even had to answer the question. “The other theaters might have prestige, but you love the stage. It’s obvious, and anyone who’d pick one of the other theaters over one of your programs is blind.”

Akio felt his own face flush, almost violently. He hadn’t had anyone say that to him in years, not since Matsuyama Yuuichi had taken him aside and told him he would never be an actor. _You love the stage_ , he’d said, _but you’ll never stand upon it. Would you like to build it instead?_ He hadn’t looked back, had tried to hide that love of the stage and push it through to the plays he commissioned, the actors and roles he paired, everything he couldn’t do himself. 

“I…,” he tried. “It wasn’t enough.” The Higashi-za was on its way out, even with the new momentum, and though it would pave the way for new opportunities to spring up in the wake of the new regulations, it still hurt.

“And you’re content with that? And who was it you just called... ‘the best actor you’ve seen in a generation’, was it?” Fujikawa sat back, suddenly utterly satisfied as he looked down at Akio. Akio half expected him to lick his lips. He tossed his head instead. “If I can’t do it -- if _we_ can’t do it, no one can.”

“Why?” Akio asked once more.

“Does a cat need a reason to do anything?” Fujikawa laughed, and Akio found himself agreeing, utterly taken in as he always seemed to be when it came to Fujikawa. He started to sit up slightly, then changed his tactics. It was a time for daring, it seemed. If they were to revive the Higashi-za, he would need a bit of daring, and while he hadn’t dug up any of his own in a while, maybe it could be borrowed.

He let his hand slide up to cup the back of Fujikawa’s neck, drawing him down into a kiss. 

Akio wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting — from the sharp fang, from the tales of bakeneko that made their way up from Saga, perhaps something sly and tasting of blood, rather than the almost tentative, surprised meeting of lips he found himself in. Fujikawa didn’t jerk in his light hold, didn’t pull back like he feared, staying close to him. Having grown up surrounded by young men, many of whom had patrons despite regulations and were more than happy to share tips or use him for practice, Akio was no stranger to kissing. He gave himself over to it eagerly, leading Fujikawa as best he could from his position, feeding the passion and hope Fujikawa had unlocked into the kiss and was relieved when he responded. He kissed like no one Akio had ever taken to bed, as if he were entirely content to lick into Akio’s mouth, to leave him panting and gasping through kisses alone, rather than a prelude to things better suited for their bedding than the floor of the theater. He did his best to rise to the challenge, to that feeling of excitement he’d thought he’d lost. Apparently all he needed was a cat demon in his bed.

“So, we’re to revive the Higashi-za with an entirely green actor no one has heard of,” he bit out when they pulled apart, panting for breath slightly. 

Fujikawa’s answering smile was more of a baring of teeth than anything, but it settled something in Akio’s soul nonetheless. “You said it was the truth that I was stunning, the best actor you’d seen. Do you distrust your own judgment that much? The programs you could build for me?”

Akio stilled under him, simply watching for a beat. It had been true, and if there was one thing he knew, it was the theater. “It won’t be easy, there are all the rest of the minor theaters looking for any hold they can get, the regulations…” He trailed off, watching Fujikawa’s face settle back into his satisfied smirk.

“I ate and took the name of the last inferior actor placed before me, let us see what they will do.” He laughed at the expression Akio knew he was making. “Why do you think I had no master to present me? I’m not beholden to your same customs; regulations mean nothing to me, not when there’s the stage to think about. Now, what do you think about making our season opening feature a _nekosoudou_?”

“With you playing the cat?”

“Of course!”

Lying there, underneath the best actor in a generation, Akio could do nothing less than laugh — agree and laugh and pull him into another kiss, next to the stage they meant to conquer.

**Author's Note:**

> A _nekosoudou_ is a drama where a demon cat takes the form of a family member to cause chaos and sow discord, usually about succession chains or scandals and switches between human and cat form day to night.
> 
> More footnotes:  
> \- In 1670 the authorities in Edo limited the amount of "major" theaters they would license to 4; these were denoted by the yagura, or drum towers they were allowed to have at the front, calling audiences to performances. No other city ever had more than 4 licensed theaters at a time (Kyoto had 3, Osaka 2, and most other cities only had 1 if they had a licensed theater at all; many were temporary theaters on shrine grounds during festivals), and unlicensed theaters acted more as feeder theaters for actors and writers, as well as substitutes when the major theaters fell on hard times financially  
> \- The Higashi-za (Eastern Theater) is a mild reference to the Minami-za (Southern Theater), one of Kyoto's major theaters which survives to this day  
> \- The 'Matsu' in Matsuyama is for pine, a reference to the starting backdrop of a pine tree upon most kabuki stages  
> \- The 'Fuji' in Fujikawa is for wisteria, an anachronistic reference to one of the dances considered one of the core female shosagoto or dance roles in kabuki today - the wisteria maiden  
> \- 1673 is noted as the start of the aragoto style, identified by brash heroes and the iconic red and black line makeup and developed mostly in Edo, differentiating from the Kamigata (Kyoto and Osaka region) style, referred to as wagoto and identified by more gentle and romantic roles  
> \- The off-season of a theater was typically the late summer and fall, with a kaomise, or "face showing" opener in October/November for the Kyoto theaters to introduce new members and new plays  
> \- Fujikawa performs mostly shosagoto, or roles that are entirely dance and rely on a lot of prop and costume changes. His described dance is the Musume Doujouji, and one of the props Hanako dances with is a hand towel, my substitute for the typical bakeneko dancing with a napkin on their head, as well as being a tale of human/non-human romance (kind of)


End file.
